


In Focus

by TerrusDacktellus



Series: Lost Continent [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics)
Genre: Buffy 10x10, F/M, Mild Angst, Pining, Schmoop, Spuffy, cause that's how I roll, ridiculous quantities of introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 12:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3729658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerrusDacktellus/pseuds/TerrusDacktellus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy takes Spike shopping for new glasses and begins to see things a little more clearly. Set after s10x10</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Focus

**Author's Note:**

> Started this fic AGES ago and have been procrastinating about it ever since. It's less relevant now that Spuffy are actually together in the comics but I loved the sexual/romantic tension between them so much that I decided to post it anyway. Makes references to a previous fic of mine, In Such A Night, but it'll still make sense if you haven't read it.

"How does it look?"

"Great," said Spike wearily. "Just like the last fifteen."

Buffy twisted to check out her ass in the mirror, ignoring his Royal Crankiness lounging by the fitting room door in the deep plush arm chair provided. It was that kind of shop. The dress looked better than great, it looked freaking fantastic. It was a shade of blue that made her heart flutter, with a light, floaty skirt that made her feel like a princess and a silhouette that made her look like a supermodel. She wanted it so much that she actually felt it like a physical ache, so of course it was three times her maximum budget.

"No," she said reluctantly, giving one last wistful twirl. "There's no way I can afford this."

"You knew the price when you tried it on," said Spike.

"Yeah." Buffy smoothed her hands over the chiffony skirt.

"So if you knew you couldn't buy it, why did you try it on?"

He was beginning to sound distinctly ratty and Buffy bit her lip against the urge to remind him of a time when he would have jumped at the chance to watch her model clothes for an afternoon. You will not be Bitchy Buffy, she told herself. You spent years telling him to get over you and now he has and you're friends. You made your bed and now you're gonna lie on it. Alone.

She took one more longing look at her reflection and ducked behind the curtain to change again. It had been a very unsuccessful afternoon. She’d tried on about a million different things which were either affordable and butt ugly or beautiful and horrendously expensive and Spike had been less than supportive about the whole thing. She changed back into her jeans and blouse and peeped around the curtain to see Spike sprawled out in the chair with his head tipped back to stare at the ceiling, rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. She stared at the long stretch of his neck for a long moment, her mouth going a little dry as she admired the taut, biteable tendons. He shifted and she whipped her head back inside, cursing herself. Just friends, just friends, just friends who could have just hung out in the record store for two hours if they really objected to traipsing after her through seven different clothing stores. Way to give off mixed signals, Spike.

Giving herself a final once over in the mirror, she reemerged, carrying The Dress on its hanger and Spike stood, huffing out a sigh of relief. 

“Finally,” he growled but she ignored him, turning instead to hang The Dress up on the rejects rail, letting her fingers trail longingly over it one last time. “Slayer, am I gonna hafta flip you over my shoulder and haul you out of here?!” 

Oh if only. Could he hear her heart beat a little faster? “Try it and lose a hand,” she snapped, hoping he’d mistake the arrhythmia for irritation. He rolled his eyes and stalked out of the shop and Buffy followed at her own pace, refusing to scurry along after him.

“So now is it time for the soddin’ optician?” 

“In ten minutes,” she said and he huffed and wandered away to ogle the records in the window of a vintage store, leaving her feeling a little wounded. It wasn’t her fault she’d taken down the wrong time for the eye test and really, he should just be grateful that she’d gone to the trouble of setting it up at all. They’d only been a few hours early and it made perfect sense to get in a little retail therapy, rather than wasting that time in the food court or something. 

Alright, so maybe she’d accidentally-on-purpose fudged the time when she’d taken down the details of his appointment but was it really that much of a chore to spend time with her? She didn’t even really know why she’d done it herself. After he’d got so embarrassed that time she’d teased him about not wearing glasses, booking an eye test seemed like a good peace offering and then she’d overheard that conversation with Xander and all of a sudden, she really wanted to spend time with Spike, like suddenly craved one-on-one, buddy-buddy time with him. It was like the way she used to crave him back in the dark, dark days in Sunnydale but in place of the frantic, stomach clenching lust, she felt an overwhelming need to see him smile or give her that glowing, special look or do that funny thing where he talked around a cigarette with half his mouth clamped shut. So why couldn’t she just ask him? ‘Hey Spike, wanna come and hang out with me? We could go see a movie or something.’ How freaking hard would that have been?! Plus, it wasn’t like he didn’t come on patrol with her nearly every night, so why did she have this inexplicable urge to force him into a weird, couple-esque situation like some ditzy sitcom character? Did she want him to see that they could actually be good together, they could work, they could do normal (and did she even want that with him?) or was it more of a desperate bid to prove that they could be friends, that getting over her didn’t have to involve leaving because he was supposed to be the one who didn’t leave and _she still wasn’t ready for him to not be there._

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What was it Spike had said to her after the all singing, all dancing Scooby debacle way back when? “The day you figure out what you want, there’ll be a parade,” or something like that. Well apparently, not much had changed. However many damn years later, here she was still wavering on the fence about him, still dangling him on a string, with no clue how she felt or what to do about it. So much for maturity. Spike, on the other hand, was all grown up and confident now, sure that he wanted to move on and create his own life and the really pathetic part of it all was that that just made him sexier. Fuck! 

“Slayer. Earth to Slayer. Buffy!”

A sudden movement in front of her face made Buffy leap about a foot into the air, earning a snort of laughter from Spike. He’d snapped his fingers under her nose, trying to get her attention. 

“So much for superhuman reflexes,” he said, grinning at her. At least he didn’t look pissed any more. “C’mon, you’ve been standing there catching flies for a good five minutes.”

He gestured and Buffy realised they were standing outside the opticians. God, she had to get out of her own head.

* *

“Plus 1.2, so that means what, you’re long sighted?” 

“Apparently.” Spike poked through the seemingly endless racks of potential frames with a slightly dispirited air. Buffy got the impression that he felt it detracted from his Big Bad status which, frankly, was ridiculous because he was barely 5”8 and hadn’t been even close to bad in years. He bent over to examine a row of thin wire frames and Buffy most definitely did not look at his ass. Not even a peek. 

“You can’t wear those. Those are granddad glasses.” 

“They’re cheap.”

“They’re tragic!” 

Spike glared and Buffy cast around until she spotted a stylish metal framed pair. “Here, try these,” she ordered, holding them out to him. He put them on with an extremely long suffering look and damn, those looked pretty good. Kind of a hot professor vibe. Rawr. 

“Whatcha think?” she asked, pleased with herself. He raised an eyebrow at her and then looked pointedly at his lack of reflection in the mirror. “Oh yeah. Uh, sorry?”

Inspiration struck and she pulled her phone out and snapped a photo of him before he could protest. That was pure Spike; smoothly arched brow, mischievous eyes, mouth quirked into a half smile of surprise. The addition of the glasses made him look like a really effective Specsavers’ ad. 

“Cute,” she proclaimed, showing him the picture and that expressive face turned sour. Whoops. Wrong choice of words. “Uh, mysterious?” He took them off and put them back on the rack, radiating disapproval. Damn. Not killing it with the wordage. 

Buffy cast around and spotted an elegant tortoise shell pair. Horn rims? Kinda girly. Nope. Ooooh, those black and silver ones were kinda futuristic. She turned to find Spike trying on the ugly wire rims and took another photo.

“See?” She held it up for him. “Tragic.” 

She plucked them off, ignoring his complaints, jammed the space spectacles on in their place and took a picture. 

“No.” 

“But -“

“I look like Spock.” 

“Spock didn’t wear glasses.”

“No!”

Buffy sighed and went back on the hunt.

* * *

“How about round frames? Nope, scratch that, forget round frames. Burn the round frames.”

“I actually kinda like ‘em.”

“You like the Sex Pistols.” 

* * *

“Try something more colourful.”

“Pet, those have glitter.” 

“It’s man glitter.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Oh come on, Spike, live a little!”

… 

“Oh right, sorry.” 

* * *

“Ooooh, these are super fashionable right now.” 

“They’re sodding nerd glasses.”

“Geek chic is in.” 

“Which is why I gave up on fashion in the 70s, love.” 

“Just try them on -“ 

“No, they’re not - hey, ow, watch my eyes, you crazy bint! Fuck!” 

Buffy snorted out a laugh as she snapped another photo before he could get them off, paparazzi style. The glasses looked absolutely terrible and his ‘just poked in the eye’ face didn’t help. Of course, she hadn’t actually picked them out to look good. These were thick black ‘steal my lunch money’ monstrosities; pure blackmail material. 

Spike winced when she showed him the picture and leaned across her to put the nerd glasses back. He was very close for a second, close enough for her to smell leather and cigarettes. 

“Hang on,” he said, looking at her phone. “You are deleting those, aren’t you?” 

She hid the screen hastily, clutching her phone to her chest. “Oh absolutely.” His eyes narrowed to slits and he made a grab for the phone. Buffy danced out of range, giggling, actually giggling. Suddenly, she was sixteen again and the cute guy was flirting with her, making playful snatches for her phone while she held it out of reach. He lunged as if he were going for the phone, then feinted, shoving the glasses she hadn’t realised he still held onto her face. She lifted her hand to take them off, he grabbed her wrist and now they’d reached an impasse, hadn’t they? If she used her other hand to push him away, he’d almost definitely lift her phone but if he grabbed for the phone she’d free her other hand and get the glasses off. She was still giggling, she realised, those terrible glasses slipping down her nose and she was sufficiently distracted by the burst of warmth in her chest that he was able to raise his own phone and take a photo of her. 

“Awwww,” he drawled, smirking and dangling the image in front of her. “Look at the cute, little nerd.” 

He was trying to rile her: she knew that tone, that expression. Except she didn’t. That old malice that used to burn behind his eyes, that sadomasochistic twist to his grin when he tried to provoke her, that hunger for pain, his, anyone’s; it was all gone and that was the crux of all her issues with this new Spike. He was the same; he still smoked too much, cussed too much, drank too much, had the most appalling fashion sense and ran his mouth when he’d be better off keeping it shut. And yet, he was different; he only smoked outside, away from fragile human lungs, he swore out of habit and not out of temper, he only got drunk when he wasn’t on call for Dowling or needed for patrol and even when he did, he was never mean. In fact, he was hardly ever mean at all anymore. Thoughtless, brusque and crude? Yes. Actually intending to hurt people? That just wasn’t Spike’s style these days. 

Brilliant. Yay for fluffy, puppy Spike. That’d been what she wanted, back in their empty, angry, hate sex days, right? The bad boy with the heart of gold, who looked tough but would do anything for his lady, that’s what she had secretly craved, the filthiest of all the filthy little fantasies she’d acted out with him, because that was the one where she used to pretend she loved him. The problem was, she didn’t know this new guy, not the way she’d known snarky, soulless Spike. This guy had died for her and then disappeared for freaking years on end, came back and disappeared again, then came back, yet again! This time it looked like he was staying but who knew? She just couldn’t read him and the more time they spent together the more confused she got. He gave her this warm, affectionate, sort of flirty act and she’d thought they were poised on the brink of . . . something? But then she’d heard him telling Xander that he was trying to get over her and that he wanted it like this, the two of them, BFFs and all non-sexy. Yet she still kinda got the impression he loved her - or was she just hugely egotistical? - but maybe didn’t want to anymore and that was a body blow. Two in the chest, kill shot. 

If she just wanted to get groiny with him, it really wouldn’t have been such an issue. She’d dealt with that before (admittedly terribly) but she was older and more mature and also less of a tragic hot mess, plus she knew what she was missing in the groin of Spike department so the whole element of mystery thing was gone. Actually, that didn’t help at all but the point was that if it had just been lusty-bad-wrong feelings, then she probably could have handled Spike wanting to get over her and in fact, she probably would have been very grateful. But it wasn’t just lust. She didn’t know what it was exactly, but she was pretty sure that lust did not cause a tickle of affection just under your heart when you saw someone’s ugly chipped nail polish, or make someone’s terrible puns hilariously funny or give you an overwhelming desire to check if someone was sleeping okay when they showed up with bags under their eyes or twist your stomach inside out with pointless, gnawing anxiety when you saw someone get hurt, pointless because you knew they were gonna heal in about five minutes, but you worried anyway because of that something. This was something more and she had no idea what it was or what to do about it. 

“Can I help you?” A sales assistant materialised beside them, her smile promising top notch customer service and her eyes promising murder if they broke something. The moment burst like a bubble and Spike let go of her instantly. 

“Uh, nope, still looking,” he said and Buffy took off the glasses. 

“Look,” she said, swiftly selecting the photos she’d taken and letting her thumb hover over the delete button. “You delete mine and I’ll delete yours.” 

Spike hesitated, then sighed. “Fine,” he said ungraciously, sulkily mimicking her actions like she was asking him to give up a Sex Pistols record signed by the great Sid himself and not a dumb photo of her in ugly glasses. “Happy now?” he asked, waving the blank screen at her as proof. She grinned and pressed delete.

She let him browse quietly after that, idly running his fingers over the frames in a way that had the poor salesgirl silently vibrating with irritation. She tried to think of something to say but the silence after their little moment stretched on and on. He finally picked a pair seemingly at random, only glancing at them briefly before shrugging and saying, “These’ll do.”

He didn’t seem to realise that they were the same pair he’d already rejected for cuteness but Buffy certainly wasn’t going to tell him that. No way was she jeopardising any chance of getting him to wear something that was actually fashionable for a change. She maintained a careful silence as he took them over to the long suffering assistant, pretending to entertain herself by trying on sunglasses as the salesgirl noted down Spike’s details.

“Thank you, Mr Pratt, we’ll give you a call as soon as your prescription is ready,” she chirped, radiating relief to be seeing the back of them. Buffy headed for the door, trying in vain to stifle a giggle. Spike gave her a quizzical look as he followed. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh nothing, Mr. Pratt,” she said, unable to contain to her laughter. “I mean, seriously Spike, could you have come with anything more fake sounding?”

He just looked at her and her laughter gradually trailed off as the truth dawned.  
“Oh God, that’s your real name, isn’t it?” 

Spike just rolled his shoulders uncomfortably.

“I’d ‘preciate it if you’d keep that li’l’ tidbit to yourself,” he said. “No need to go dragging me mum’s name through the muck.”

Buffy suspected that Mrs Pratt had been dead far too long for any association with Spike to tarnish her reputation but she kept her mouth shut, partly because she was charmed by the notion of him wanting to protect a dead woman’s name and partly because she was busy repeating the name in her head. Pratt. William Pratt. Mr William Pratt. She shot a sidelong glance at Spike, who was fiddling with his phone, Mr Tough Vamp with the leather and the scarred eyebrow and the black nail varnish and tried to imagine what he might have looked like, how he might have acted back when he’d just been plain old Mr Pratt. For some reason, she just couldn’t quite picture it. 

* * *  
Back at the apartment, having lamented her lack of success in the shopping arena to Willow and Dawn, Buffy flopped across her bed and turned on her laptop. She glanced around shiftily and then felt ridiculous because this was her room and there was no one to even around to see her making with the sneakage and besides it wasn’t like she was doing anything bad.

Well, not _bad_ bad. 

She signed into the cloud service that synced with her phone every time she took a picture.

Spike probably wouldn’t even mind, she told herself. He’d probably be ‘dead chuffed’ - that was the British for happy right? And hey, punnage - that she wanted photos of him. She clicked on the mobile uploads folder and sure enough, there they were, fifteen or so photos of Spike in varying shades of irritation and amusement. She had every right to keep them. It wasn’t like she didn’t have terrible pictures of Dawn or Xander hidden away for potential humiliation value. That was just a totally normal thing that friends did. Totally. 

“Finally doin’ what’s best for both of us.” Spike’s voice seemed to echo in her ear and she really wished she hadn’t eavesdropped on that conversation with Xander or maybe it was better that she had because otherwise she might have done something really embarrassing like kissing him and how stomach crampingly awkward would it have been if she’d kissed him and he’d given her the ‘we’re better off as friends’ speech? Right, okay, this was better. She could totally handle just being friends. She was a pro at being friends. And yet - the mouse hovered over the delete button. 

And yet - she raised her finger. _Just click the button, Buffy._

And yet, she didn’t really have any pictures of him, did she? When he’d died, she hadn’t even had a pile of ashes to mourn over, not so much as a lousy scrap of leather to remember him by, never mind an actual photograph. That was the problem with vampires: they claimed to be immortal but when they vanished, it was as though they’d never been there at all. What if something happened? She wasn’t an idiot. Things might seem peaceful now, but the shadows were circling, like they always did. That book was like a magnet, drawing evil, power hungry creatures out of the night and there would inevitably be some sort of showdown and while she’d deal with that when it came to it because she was Buffy Summers, Slayer comma The and that was what she did, there was no telling who’d be left standing once the dust had settled. Or whose dust would be settling. 

She scrolled through the pictures again, drinking in Spike’s face in a way that wasn’t possible when he was actually there because he’d notice the staring and totally make a thing out of it. Some of the photos were extremely unflattering and others were just kinda cute or funny and a few of them featured that piercing, true blue gaze of his, the one that always left her a little breathless. Her favourite was still the very first one she’d taken, the one he hadn’t been expecting at all. Ding _dong_. She hesitated for a moment, then saved it to her computer. Just in case. 

It occurred to her wonder if Spike had done the same thing but she dismissed that thought quickly. Spike was fairly technologically advanced for a vampire but she was pretty sure that setting his phone to automatically sync photos with the cloud would be beyond him. Besides, why he want a photo of her? He saw her every day. _He’s over you, Summers. Get that through your head._

* * *  
The minute he’d said goodbye to Buffy, Spike pulled out his phone again. He shouldn’t have done this, he really shouldn’t have done this and yet he had. The minute that salesgirl had interrupted them, he’d emailed that photo to himself (it was so easy, two or three taps of a button and it was gone), then blithely lied through his teeth and agreed to the mutually assured deletion. Now he had a picture of Buffy on his phone, and having let himself into his apartment, he was sitting on his bed, staring at it like the lovesick, gormless twat that he was. 

He tried to reason with himself. _This is a step backwards. You’re supposed to be getting over her. You were doing so well. You spent a whole afternoon with her and you hardly thought about kissing her more than a handful of times. Well, two handfuls if you count the times you thought about fucking her. And if you include all the times you imagined her naked when she was changing in and out of those tiny little dresses and flouncing about in them in front of you like she wanted you to look at her - anyway, the point is, you didn’t do that badly. Didn’t act on your stupid, creepy, stalker fantasies, didn’t make her uncomfortable, was the perfect gentleman really. Alright, that’s an exaggeration but still you’ve come too far to backslide now. Progress!!_

The little voice in his head was starting to sound a hell of a lot like Dowling. And occasionally Xander. Another voice, one that sounded a lot more like his own reminded him that he couldn’t be that over the girl if he’d bought a bloody pair of glasses just because she said they looked cute. Cute! _God Almighty, what are you coming to?_

“I should delete this,” he said, as if speaking aloud would make it sound more convincing. In the photo, Buffy wrinkled her nose in mock disgust, caught in mid giggle, her vibrant, green eyes dancing even in a shitty digital reproduction. She looked adorable, carefree and cheerful and heart stoppingly, gut wrenchingly beautiful at the same time. Sometimes, he thought he’d go blind if he looked at her for too long, because she was just so fucking luminous. He took in her wide, shining smile, the crinkled corners of her eyes, the golden strands of hair that flew around her face, disarranged by his clumsiness as he’d put the glasses on her and sighed.

He knew he should delete it because otherwise he’d just keep mooning over the bloody thing and wondering how much happier he could make her if they were together, if this was how happy she was just being his friend. Or, he thought, with the sudden excitement of an impending epiphany, maybe I could just be glad I made her happy. All the truly terrible shit we’ve been through - that I put her through - and she laughed. She relaxed around me. 

Spike nodded to himself, decision made. He’d keep the photo, as a reminder that things were good right now, the way they were, that _this_ was the way forward for both of them, the way to a relationship where they were both equally valued and trusted. His fingers moved involuntarily to trace the curve of her face and a sigh of longing escaped him. Maybe he never would stop loving her but he could learn to be happy with what he had. It was a hell of a lot more than he deserved.


End file.
